


Promised Land

by Chairtastic



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Culture Shock, Dalish Elven Culture and Customs, Eventual Relationships, Fantastic Racism, Ferelden (Dragon Age), Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Magic, Multi, Nation Making, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Politics, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:41:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23587816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chairtastic/pseuds/Chairtastic
Summary: By decree of King Alistair Therein, King of Ferelden, the Dalish elves shall have a homeland again! If only it were so easy. A story about nation-building, politics, so much racism, and figuring out the right level of elfiness.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	1. Chapter 1

**Promised Land**  
  
Summary: By decree of King Alistair Therein, King of Ferelden, the Dalish elves shall have a homeland again! If only it were so easy. A story about nation-building, politics, so much racism, and figuring out the right level of elfiness.  
  
Author’s Note: It has always irked me that this boon got handwaved away. All the boons got handwaved away, but this one seemed annoying because there was no reason given. Then I dug more into the storytelling around elves and the Dalish in particular and Bioware’s treatment of them actively pissed me off. So here we are! This fic assumes you have at least some knowledge of Dragon Age, but explanations will be provided narratively as well.  
  
 **Chapter 1 -- A Promise Made**  
  
“The Gwaren Teyrnir, the Stenhold Arling, and Ostagar are hereby granted to the Dalish elves.”  
  
Those were the words that silenced an entire party of celebrating nobility. It lasted only a moment, but once the noise started again it was not so carefree. Some partygoers did not return to frivolity at all, but found a need to steady themselves with more wine. And then yet more wine.  
  
Queen Anora of Ferelden was one such person. She hoped beyond hope that the alcohol would steady her hands, lest she choke her second husband to death in front of witnesses. She told herself she could wait until the party concluded -- until she later heard the Dalish representative talk about how glad she would be to spread the news. If the Hero of Ferelden had not been in her company, Anora would have ordered the messenger silenced -- condolences would be given to the Dalish clan, and that would be the end of it. Worse -- the Hero decided they would accompany the representative, so sending assassins would be pointless.  
  
For all her waify figure and relative shortness, Anora was a terror when her temper stirred. She made sure to maintain a veneer of celebratory happiness and made her way through the nobles and military officers to her King husband’s side. He had left the elevated throne platform to mingle, chat with his fellow adventurers and his adoptive family, so Anora had no trouble sliding up beside him with a false smile.  
  
“Alistair,” she spoke in a hushed tone while she smiled to fool eavesdroppers. “Could you walk with me for a bit?”  
  
Golden-haired Alistair Theirin glanced at his wife and former sister-in-law, then at his drunken dwarf companion who seemed to know how much trouble Alistair had gotten into. “I’ll, uh, be back in a bit. Don’t set my new castle on fire while I’m gone.”  
  
The drunken dwarf chuckled ominously as they walked away.  
  
While they made their way to the castle’s promenade, Anora let Alistair’s similar appearance to her first husband -- Alistair’s late brother -- fool her into thinking of better times. It helped her steel herself for the discussion that was to follow.  
  
“You’re the King, decrees and all that are your affair. But as your Queen, it’s my job to ensure those decrees are actually put into law.” She looked up at him, stern and scolding with her eyes alone. “And I have to tell you that granting the Dalish land is going to cause nothing but problems.”  
  
Alistair’s face screwed up in mild disgust as he gently pulled his arm out of lock with Anora’s. His ceremonial armor caught the setting sun’s light and made him look _so much_ like Cailan that it hurt Anora to see the expression. “The Hero of Ferelden asked me for land. They slew the Archdemon, saved the day, saved _both of us_ , and did the impossible.” He looked at her like he desperately wanted her to understand. “Blights normally take years, sometimes _decades or more_ to stop. This one ended in _months_. Literally unprecedented. Heh, I think that’s the first time I used that word correctly.” He smiled a bit at his achievement, then shook his head. “Anyway -- they deserved to have their boon granted.”  
  
“Yes, fine, whatever,” Anora shook her head and looked away. “They’ve earned it, but the Dalish as a whole _haven’t_.” The two of them kept walking so that spies would not be able to catch all of their conversation. It was inevitable that at least some of it would get out. “They’re not even a unified group!”  
  
Alistair sighed. “There’s already Dalish in the Brecilian Forest -- and most of Stenhold is Blighted right now, anyway. The clans already in Ferelden can get started, and help the others adjust as they settle.”  
  
Anora swerved so quickly the gold buckles on her regal gown clinked. “You’re serious,” she said, shocked. “You mean for _all_ the Dalish to live there? Do you not -- how can you -- “ she trailed off as she tried to process her husband’s foolishness.  
  
“Alright, I can tell when I’m missing something important. Tell me what it is, and we’ll work it out. I’m not backing down, though.”  
  
Anora sighed and risked her makeup by touching her forehead to stave off a headache. “You’re missing many, many important things that relate to each other. But I’ll start with the most important questions.” She looked at Alistair with a serious look. “Are you intending for them to be subject to the crown, or independent?”  
  
Alistair narrowed his eyes at her, his expression was uncomprehending. “Independent. Obviously. It’s their land.”  
  
“Alright. That’s a terrible decision, but it’s yours to make. Second -- what do you intend to do with the thousands of _humans_ who live in the _city_ of Gwaren alone? Or the cities along the coast? Where are they going to go? What about the property they had to leave behind to escape the Blight?”  
  
  
He clenched his eyes shut as he realized his mistake. “Well… we’ll have to set up negotiations with the Dalish, hash out borders, and stuff.”  
  
“And stuff,” Anora sneered in a mockery of his voice. “You know what, I’m going to retire for the evening so that I can write up a _list_ of all the things we’ll need to talk about.” She stepped away, and back into the halls of the castle. Alistair was left to wonder how much work he’d created for himself.  
  
\--  
  
Denerim was a frightful mess. The walls had been torn down, some parts of the city still smoked from earlier flames. Streets were laden with the dead and dying, people and animals alike. There was never more woe in a Ferelden city than when they had to put an end to their dogs to save them an agonizing death.  
  
Much of the area outside Denerim was Blighted too. Dead darkspawn and active Blight infections had damaged the soil and killed plants. So while the wealthy humans inside the walls celebrated victory, and poor humans struggled to take stock, the Dalish labored to heal the land.  
  
Three clans, brought together by the call to fight the darkspawn and their archdemon, labored intensely to uproot blighted plants, and help the earth bury toxic corpses deep underground and hidden away in geodes where water wouldn’t reach. And where the bodies couldn’t escape if they were reanimated.  
  
It would take days of work from the Dalish mages to see the land around Denerim alone totally restored. They would celebrate in their own way, when the evil substance was gone from the land. There was hope that much of the countryside could be saved due to how brief the Blight had been.  
  
As the sun went down, the leaders of the three Dalish clans elected to stop for the day and rest. Their clans intermingled, told stories, shared food, and the three Keepers convened to break bread together.  
  
Lanaya of Mansalin clan, the youngest of the Keepers, was less than confident about her equal status to the others in her company. She had been the First to her predecessor Zathrian not six weeks prior, and the position as Keeper didn’t seem to fit her just yet. She stirred a pot of stew while the elder Keepers sat and rested.  
  
Ilshae, Keeper of Sylenaste clan, sat cross-legged in the soil around the fire. She had her elbow propped up on one knee to support her head as she looked into the flames. Like Lanaya, she had a short set of robes meant to maximize ease of movement and blend into thick foliage. When offered a bowl by the junior Keeper, she took it without fuss.  
  
Eldest of the three was Deshanna of Lavellan clan. She wore Keeper robes in the style of the Dales, much to Lanaya’s envy. The most notable feature was the outermost coat lined with paired leaf patterns down the sides -- a striking design. The elder elf took the bowl offered to her and immediately set it down. “Marethari should have been with us,” she said and shook her head gently.  
  
“Asha’bellanar demands her due,” Ilshae said, slow and methodical, and waited for her stew to cool a bit before she dug into it with a spoon. “Hmm, good seasonings.”  
  
“Thank you,” Lanaya responded, demure, and poured some for herself. “Sabrae clan would have helped, but with that Grey Warden and their friends, we had all we needed.”  
  
“It will not reflect good on her that one of her clan slew the Archdemon and lived, itself unprecedented, while she crossed the sea to the Free Marches.” Deshanna looked across the fire at Ilshae. “She left the Warden’s mother with your clan, did she not?”  
  
Ilshae nodded, and continued to eat her soup. All elves were willowy in build, but Ilshae looked like she had been without good food for a while. Her hunger was understandable, for among her clan the Keeper would eat last, if there was even food by that point. “We’ll look after her, let there be no doubt.”  
  
“I was told that the Warden’s mother left?” Lanaya sat with her stew and stirred it as it cooled.  
  
“In all the ways that count, that woman is their mother,” Deshanna said evenly. “Our clans are all swollen with refugees from the cities and the Circle -- we might well need to divide if we aim to travel far.”  
  
“They always swell after a crisis,” Ilshae murmured to Lanaya and gestured with her spoon. “The city elves will go back when they tire of us. And the Circle mages will need to be given to more mobile clans to escape the templars after them.”  
  
“Not necessarily.” Deshanna smirked, her green eyes alight with mischief. For a woman of her age, it was quite a sight. “I have among my clan a Circle mage who told me where the shemlin keep the phylacteries which they use to track escaped mages. Such a shame, that the... darkspawn burned the building to the ground during the battle.”  
  
Lanaya’s eyes widened while Ilshae nodded appreciatively. “We could really just… walk away with as many elves from the Circle as we can, can’t we?” Lanaya looked down at her stew and fought the urge to smirk herself. “We’re stealing our people back from them.”  
  
“No,” Ilshae said and tapped Lanaya’s hand with her spoon. “They are coming home.”  
  
The others nodded and began to eat in silence for a while. After the sun had fully set, there was a sudden ruckus from the outskirts of the camp. Cheering, Lanaya realized. She rose from her meal the fastest of the three and left the fire to meet the ruckus. She saw them only in glances through the throng of young Dalish who had gathered around them -- the Hero of Ferelden. The warriors and hunters shoved drinks at them and spirited them away to a fire for the story of how the Archdemon was slain. At the Warden’s side was another of the People, a dark-skinned elf in ironbark armor, perhaps a Dalish from the north?  
  
Lanaya saw an elderly elf woman in a yellow formal dress approach her through the crowd -- just as her fellow Keepers caught up at last. She beamed so brightly that the sun would be jealous and had to contain her glee as she approached.  
  
“Ashaelle, you’re early,” Ilshae said with an arched brow. “But you look happy about it.” The middle-aged Keeper indicated the woman. “This is Ashalle, the Warden’s second mother. My guest.”  
  
“Andaran atish’an,” the other Keepers greeted her.  
  
Ashaelle returned the greeting and looked as if she were about to explode in glee. Like a child, she bounced on her feet. “Keepers, I have fantastic news, but I think you need to hear it first to decide what to do about it.” As one the Keepers leaned in to listen to the whispers Ashaelle had for them.  
  
When she heard it, Lanaya felt like she was going to faint. She stumbled backward and looked around in a daze. Her ears had been ringing all day from the battle and the cleanup after, she had no idea if the news had made it worse or better.  
  
Deshanna was still a moment, then put her fingers to her mouth to whistle out into the camp. “Gather the Firsts and Seconds,” she shouted. “There are matters which we must discuss!”  
  
Ilshae’s breathing became erratic for a moment, she had to sit down. After Lanaya helped her to do so quickly, she rested her head in her hands. “Creators,” was all she said, stunned.  
  
“Please don’t share this with anyone just yet,” Lanaya said quickly, her voice a little unsteady. “We want to discuss it a bit before we get everyone too excited to sleep tonight.”  
  
“I’ll keep silent until you say otherwise, Keepers.” Ashaelle bowed her head, though she still seemed bouncy. “And don’t worry about my da’len or their Antivan friend, they want us to announce it -- they’ll keep their peace.” She left their presence and went toward where her da’len had gone to tell of their battles to the clans.  
  
The three Keepers returned to their fire and waited for the arrival of their Firsts and Seconds. While they did, Ilshae dug through the contents of her aravel. She came back with three rolled-up maps, and spread them out for the Keepers to see.  
  
“We don’t have complete maps of the forest,” she said. “But my clan has passed through the portions closest to the Korcari Wilds for decades. Here’s what we have, to give you an idea of what it’s like.”  
  
The three Keepers poured over the maps, to get an idea of what they would be bringing their clans into. Deshanna got their attention and pointed out a spot. “I know this place -- Keeper Gothallen mentioned it to me once, an entrance to the Deep Roads, from when the dwarves traded with the shemlin.”  
  
Lanaya frowned, as did Ilshae. The middle-aged Keeper spoke up. “The darkspawn might well flee to there -- we’ll need to investigate the tunnels.”  
  
The youngest Keeper pinched her chin in consideration. “But, if it’s isolated enough… we could investigate it as a possible Deep Roads outpost for trade with the dwarves. That way we don’t have to go through the humans.”  
  
“Don’t get ahead of ourselves,” Deshanna chided them both. “The Blight has ended for hours at most. There is still work to be done, the whole south of Ferelden needs to be cleaned of the Blight.” Deshanna looked down at the map and then looked into the flames. “And we need to send word to the other clans -- as many as we can find.”  
  
Lanaya rubbed her forehead as a sudden thought came to her. “We don’t have time,” she muttered. “The humans will want to talk specific terms right away -- they won’t accept that our three clans aren’t in a position to negotiate on behalf of all the clans.”  
  
“Perhaps the Warden could be of assistance then,” Ilshae said, and resumed eating her stew. “They slew the Archdemon with the shemlin king, they could negotiate better terms for us?”  
  
“I will ask, they have some skills with it -- but we have to have a plan if they say no.” Lanaya looked at the happy throng of elves in the distance, wistful. “They’ve done so much for us already -- it seems cruel to ask more if we can manage without them. Such a short time after the Blight’s ended, too.”  
  
Deshanna looked at the crowd as Lanaya had done, and nodded decisively. “Then we’ll make time.” She glanced away as the Seconds and Firsts began to leave the crowd, then focused a steely gaze on the other Keepers. “I will take some hunters and go back across the sea. We will spread the word to as many clans as we can find -- I know their routes the best out of the three of us. You will delay the shemlin by saying the Blighted soil needs more work to repair than we anticipated. Perhaps by the time I return, it will be true.”  
  
“We’ll play up the damage of the Blight,” Ilshae said, slow but deliberate. “Perhaps, if the shemlin have hearts, they will not hate us for being given lands near theirs.” The middle-aged Keeper squinted at Deshanna. “Aren’t you too old to go off without your clan, though? Will your First manage?”  
  
“Not all the clans will have even heard the news that there was a Blight, or will believe that it was dealt with so quickly.” Deshanna frowned and shook her head. “They will trust me. Perhaps they will even believe me. And we’ll need them to spread the word even further.”  
  
Ilshae’s First was the first to arrive, Velanna -- a stern, temperamental woman who was part of a growing trend among Firsts and Seconds, the designing of custom vallaslin on their face. She originally came from a clan in western Orlais, and had the peculiar combination of blond hair and dark skin that elves from that region shared. Velanna had once confided that her vallaslin was based on elven murals she had seen there. She was only a year younger than Lanaya, so the new Keeper waved at her as they would at greetings.  
  
Velanna waved back, awkward perhaps because of the difference in their positions.  
  
Ilshae frowned when she saw only Deshanna and her own clan represented. “Lanaya, where is your First and your Seconds?”  
  
Lanaya’s cheer dimmed slightly. “Right now it appears that none of them survived. We lost so many to the werewolves before the Warden arrived, and when Keeper Zathrian passed as well… some took their lives out of grief. The rest… I have not seen since the battle.” There was a quiet understanding -- the humans had made it clear the Dalish were not welcome in the city uninvited with the battle done.  
  
Deshanna clicked her tongue and waved her First, Mahanon, to the front as he arrived.  
  
Only his vallaslin marked him as one of The People, for his fashion sense had taken after the humans. Long breeches tucked into knee-high boots, a tunic with a long sleeveless leather coat on top. Lanaya noted that he was one of the few younger Dalish to have a traditional pattern dedicated to one of the elven gods -- Mythal’s pattern in scar tissue pink to stand out against his darker skin.  
  
“There are many things we must discuss,” Deshanna announced to all the elvish mages present. “Things regarding the healing of the land, and the future of the Dalish. First, let us start with momentous news which we ask you to keep secret for now....”  
  
\--  
  
“Alim, Roscoe keeps kicking me when I’m trying to sleep!”  
  
“I am not!”  
  
Alim sighed and got up from his bedroll. It took him a minute due to the work he had done in the battle. Be a Knight-Enchanter, they’d said. Serve as a patriot on the front lines, they’d said. They didn’t prepare him for the grim realities of fighting. It was good that he had been too tired to undress before bed -- clearly he still had work to do. Thankfully less killing was involved.  
  
All around him were the fifteen or so elven mages whom he had brought along to the Dalish. The Templars would look for them, but it would take them time to realize the phylacteries were gone, and more time to think to look among the Dalish. By then, they would be gone. Alim walked around the cots of the apprentices and junior mages to find where the two children squabbled.  
  
Minaeve and Roscoe were the youngest, ten and nine respectively, they had only recently been brought to the Circle and now they were free of it. That would be fine, if Roscoe hadn’t been bitter that Minaeve was one of the Dalish -- she had been stolen from her clan, and tricked into thinking she had been cast out. But she knew elvish, and the stories, and Roscoe didn’t -- so the young elf had decided to be a prick.  
  
When Alim came to them, he saw Minaeve sitting on her bedroll while Roscoe had laid down and rolled over away from their minder. Alim glanced at them and saw a footprint on Minaeve’s blanket, rather Roscoe-sized. The young red-headed elf girl glared at the brunette boy with his back to her.  
  
Alim sighed and crouched down to Minaeve. Whispers in his ears told him what to say, insight from his consort. “Why don’t you go use my bedroll for the night? I’ll stay here with Roscoe.”  
  
She nodded, still cross, and stomped away from her fellow youngster.  
  
Alim sat down cross-legged on Minaeve’s bedroll -- fortunately they were all the same size and rested his jaw in his hands. He let Roscoe pretend to be asleep for a moment while he made sure the surrounding apprentices actually were asleep. “You didn’t have a problem with Minaeve before we came to the Dalish. Want to talk about it?”  
  
The young elf shook his head and remembered his act. He didn’t respond after that.  
  
Alim stayed with the youngster until he actually fell asleep, then stood and stumbled away from the apprentices. He was too awake for sleep, he’d have to do some menial task to become tired enough to try for sleep again. It would be too easy to borrow strength from his consort, to negate the need for sleep -- the first step on a dangerous road.  
  
He found the piled up Circle robes that he and the other escapees had come to the Dalish in -- they had to hastily change to blend in. But rather than destroy the robes, Alim began to take them apart with a small knife he had started to keep on his person since the incident at the Circle tower. A spirit blade was good for a fight, but had limited utility.  
  
He cut through seams to break the robes down into pieces of fabric that the Dalish could use for other purposes -- perhaps they would appreciate adding some blues or reds to their fashion. Perhaps they would become coverings for the aravel wagons.  
  
A foot stepped down on the grass, it rustled. Suddenly Alim whirled around, his knife in position to stab, and a ball of arcane energy in his other hand.  
  
One of the Dalish mages was there, and recoiled at Alim’s posture and expression. Perhaps he’d never seen another elf prepared to kill him specifically. Perhaps he’d never seen golden eyes glare at him with killing intent. Alim only knew he was Dalish because of his tattoos, otherwise he dressed like a somewhat fashionable city elf.  
  
“Easy,” the Dalish said with his hands raised and spread. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to spook you.”  
  
Alim slowly lowered the knife and dispelled his arcane bolt. “Forgive me, I’ve been… on edge lately.” He didn’t turn his back to the Dalish elf, but pulled his work around so he could keep at it.  
  
“After today, and what I’m told happened at your tower, I understand.” The Dalish looked at him with pity, but Alim felt no surge of anger at the pity as happened in the stories. He didn’t feel anything from it. “I’m Mahanon, Keeper Deshanna’s First.”  
  
“Alim,” the escaped Circle mage introduced himself. “Formerly of the Circle of Magi. How can I help you?”  
  
“Well, we wanted to thank you for your willingness to help heal the land from the Blight, even if it put your people at greater risk of being noted.” He inclined his head to the shorter elf.  
  
“People would notice ‘Dalish’ mages doing nothing. It would draw suspicion.”  
  
“A fair point, but you still helped. We’re grateful.”  
  
“You’re welcome,” Alim said, mostly to try and get Mahanon to go away. “Is there something else?”  
  
Mahanon sighed and sat down nearby. Denerim’s walls cast long shadows, which crept across them as the moon moved through the sky. “I understand you are what is known as a… ‘spirit healer?’”  
  
It was Alim’s turn to sigh and set aside his work. His consort’s whispers became louder in his ears as he worked magic through his limbs in anticipation of healing. “Alright, where does it hurt?” A faint golden glow covered his hand as he extended it toward the Dalish.  
  
Mahanon’s eyes went wide. “Oh, um, I’m not injured.”  
  
“Diseased then?” Alim arched an eyebrow at the Dalish. “It doesn’t work so well against diseases or parasites, but it can help. It’s not Blight, is it?”  
  
“No, that’s not -- ahem.” The tattooed elf took a breath and spoke. “Our clan doesn’t allow magics that affiliate with spirits -- most don’t, actually. But we know that your association helps you help people. You do a lot of good with it.”  
  
“People are alive right now that wouldn’t be if I hadn’t learned how to do this,” Alim said, mildly subdued. He dismissed the golden glow with a snap of his wrist and returned to work. “But… I get it. We have spirits pass through us to help mend people, so we always have a chance to lose control. Extra diligence is required.” The Circle mage regarded the Dalish mage, and nodded in difference. “So you want me to stop?”  
  
“I didn’t say that.” Mahonon rubbed his hand through his hair, which made Alim notice that he was red-headed as Alim was. Different shades of red, though. “The Keepers want to know what sort of spirit you communicate with. They want to have an open mind considering all that’s happened recently, but they need more information.”  
  
“I’m on my second spirit,” Alim admitted. He tried to keep his face free of emotion while he talked. The pain was still raw. His consort whispered sweet things to him. “The first one… was destroyed during the incident at the tower. Right now I consort with a spirit of unity.”  
  
Mahanon’s eyes widened for a moment, then he appeared to reflect on what Alim had implied. “I’m sorry for your loss.”  
  
“Thank you.” Alim turned away from the Dalish. No one but Wynne and his consort had offered anything like sympathy for what he had lost. With all that had happened just earlier that day, it felt like a stone laid on his back. He would not break down and wake the apprentices up. He wouldn’t. The whispers stopped.  
  
“Being associated with a spirit of unity is… hopefully good. They’re not common, so they’re not interested in the waking world very much. I’ve never even heard of one. That’ll put their minds at ease… but they likely will ask you not to teach the techniques to anyone without their approval.”  
  
The Circle mage nodded. “I can do that. Or rather, refrain from that.”  
  
“Thank you.” There was a shuffle and shift of grass, the Dalish had stood up. “You should rest, we have a lot of Blight cleaning to do tomorrow.”  
  
“No promises, still a lot of work here to do,” Alim gestured with his knife. He was even more awake than when he’d started. It would take hours to get to sleep. That assumed none of the apprentices needed something in the night.  
  
As the Dalish began to leave, there was a faint sound from where the apprentices lay. Someone had woken up crying. Alim sighed, stood, put the knife away and started to walk. He walked past the Dalish, nodded in acknowledgment, and went to work. It would not be the first time he was a shoulder to cry on.  
  
Nor the last.  
  
\---  
  
Being an essential worker is made of ass. Stop going to stores. I want to be a hermit and get paid to write fanfiction all day, goddamnit.  
  
Anyway, the major points of divergence here are threefold.

  1. The Dalish are given Gwaren, Stenhold (mostly Blighted), and Ostagar as their boon, rather than the Hinterlands + Ostagar. Combining the riches and titles boon with the land boon because it makes sense from Alistair’s perspective.
  2. Lanaya’s clan is joined by two others who came to help with the Blights. Thus she is not alone to speak for her entire culture.
  3. Alim Surana from the Magi origin lived and shared some _interesting_ things with the Dalish.



The three mages per clan rule DA:I introduced is not canon for this story. Because it's stupid. In my headcanon, spirits of unity are the counterpart to demons of envy.  
  
Mahariel probably won't be an active character in the story. Their part as the hero is over and done, they’re off to Kirkwall, and then Amaranthine for their DLC adventures. I don’t quite know yet.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2 -- The start of Complications**

Alistair Therein did not enjoy himself over the next couple of days. His friends had all gone, scattered to the wind with their duty completed. He knew that would happen, but until it actually happened it hadn’t seemed real. Save for a wife who looked at him and saw a ghost, and his uncles, he was largely alone in Denerim.

At least there was a lot of work he could do to distract himself. It was unpleasant work, mind, but still. He had to have people go to every corner of the country to take stock of who was still alive, and how many of their citizens still lived. Of particular interest were the southern banns and arls, whose land he had given away. Oopsie.

Denerim also needed to be rebuilt, as did the entire southern region. With a fixed amount of gold to pay for anything, he had to find out ways to pay people to rebuild things and set up shop. Fortunately, he had some help on that front.

It had been years since both Alistair and his foster father, Arl Eamon Guerrin, had been out of armor when they spoke. Alistair had come to meet him in the offices granted to Eamon as part of his chancellorship. Already the arl had decorated the suite in Redcliffe’s colors.

“Now, normally it would be expected to do this in _your_ office suite,” Eamon explained as he poured some brandy for the two of them to drink. “But considering that part of the castle needs to be repaired, I think a break in protocol can be forgiven.”

Alistair nodded, and took the cup with inordinate care. While his foster father was used to silk tunics and other fine clothes, Alistair still hadn’t adapted to his late brother’s wardrobe. Golden shirts would stain easy, he reckoned, so he had to be careful.

“Anora has said she’s working on something for you, a list?” Eamon arched his brow as he sat in an armchair in a corner, and indicated Alistair to sit in its twin. The older, beared man held and drank from his glass with ease that Alistair didn’t think he’d ever have.

If given a flagon and armor, he’d be fine. Fancy alcohol and fancy clothes didn’t mix with a man who slept in the kennels as a boy. There wasn’t even anything he could set the drink on, he had to hold it and hope for the best. “Um. Yes. A list of all the things we need to talk about regarding the Dalish,” Alistair explained. “But that’s not why I’m here. I’m here to ask about possibly asking the Divine for aid in reconstructing Ferelden.”

Eamon nodded, and sipped his brandy. “A perfectly reasonable request. But why not go through Grand Cleric Elemena?”

“Because I don’t actually know what’s involved in asking the Chantry for help. Paperwork, official wording, the appropriate cheese to sacrifice, stuff like that.” Alistair dared to try and take a drink of the brandy, and made a face. The taste was not what he expected.

“It’s good that you make such faces here, with me, because if another official saw you react that way to their drink, they might be insulted.” Eamon took a deeper drink of his brandy. “There is a template to fill out, you just ask the scribes to have one drawn up according to the situation, sign your name, and seal it with the royal crest. Then a messenger passes it off to the Grand Cleric, and you wait for a reply. Fairly straightforward as far as diplomacy goes.”

“I like straightforward. It’s a good direction to walk in.”

“Quite. But being straightforward in other diplomatic capacities is… ill-advised. It opens you up to manipulation, or being led on. As chancellor, I will cover most foreign relations, and assign a tutor to mentor you in the areas yourself.” Eamon smiled wryly. “Maybe we can find that same tutor who taught you maths.”

A cold chill went down Alistair’s spine and he shuddered at the memory of that toad-like woman and her raven-feather quills. “Please don’t. I’m not too proud to beg on my knees.”

Eamon snapped his fingers. “That’s another thing we’ll need to fix, humbleness is good in subjects, not so much in nobility. Makes the banns think you’re just a trumped-up commoner.” Eamon’s brandy was nearly gone, and Alistair’s barely touched. “But… on the issue of the Dalish. May I offer some advice?”

“Of course,” Alistair replied, genuinely confused as to why Eamon would need to ask. “I’ll always listen to what you have to say.”

“I suspect it will be on the list, but the Chantry will have some things to say about the Dalish being given land. You’re not the first king to have been served well by a Dalish clan and wanted to reward them with territory. Every time, the Chantry steps in and the offer is rescinded.”

Alistair’s eyes narrowed and he dared drink some brandy to try and look cool. “Well -- “ he immediately started to cough after he started speaking again. A wet, hacking cough that motivated Eamon to rise and whack him on the back. “Oh..... Down the wrong pipe.” When he was recovered, and Eamon returned to his seat, Alistair kept on his train of thought. “Where was I? Right. Well, it’s not being resended -- “

“Rescinded,” Eamon corrected gently.

“Recindered -- “

“Re-scind-ed.”

“Yes. That.” Alistair scowled from the exchange. “Mahariel is my _friend_. I would be dead if not for them. So would all of Ferelden right now. I’m keeping my promise to them, come what may.”

“Even if it means the Chantry refuses to help Ferelden rebuild?” Eamon swirled the remainder of his brandy in his cup while Alistair looked shocked. “Oh yes. It’s not widely known, but the Chantry frequently ties some aid to the repeal of reform policies meant to improve the lot of elves in general. Why do you think they still exclude elves from the priesthood, hmm?”

“Seems a bit hypocritical of them, given Andraste’s history and all that.” Alistair made a face when Eamon shook his head. “I _spoke_ to Shartan, alright? Or his… ghost, fade spirit, whatever. They can deny it all they want, but if they want to get to the temple of sacred ashes, they’ll have to do the same.” He suddenly realized something, and snapped his fingers at Eamon. “That’s it. If they won’t help us rebuild, we won’t let them get to the temple of sacred ashes.”

Eamon looked at Alister without blinking, and spoke firmly. “Denying access to Andraste’s ashes is a good way to get an Exalted March called down upon us. Not joking, an actual Exalted March.” He swirled the remaining brandy in his glass and considered the situation. “The Grand Clerics will likely provide token support at first, then grant additional support after some concessions. We won’t know until it happens.”

“So, I should probably be thinking of what… asking for a loan from another nation if they ask for something unreasonable?”

“I hear Antiva is generous with their interest rates.”

\--

Lanaya walked among her clan as they prepared for the next wave of Blight cleansing outside Denerim. They were garbing themselves in slicked leather clothes that left no part of their skin exposed to touch the Blight, with hoods with smoked lenses to keep their eyes safe as well. She helped one or two who could not reach the buckles as she passed. There was much work to do.

If Keeper Zathrian had still lived, they would have made double the progress they had already -- but that was because the late Keeper had been a blood mage. Blood magic could do what they did to heal the land of the Blight with greater efficiency, but if they all used blood magic at one time, then the humans would become aware.

Undoubtedly, some of the humans in Denerim had already complained about the Dalish presence outside their walls. Undoubtedly, lords would send soldiers to harass them away. But the Dalish had helped lands ravaged by the Blight to heal and come back to life for all the Blights -- save one. Orlais had needed the narrative that the elvhen had provided nothing to help with the Second Blight, so access to the diseased lands was prohibited, and then the ruination blamed on the Dales.

Or so Lanaya had been told.

Her new First, transferred to her clan from Lavellan clan, helped her don the protective clothes and she did the same for him. “Alim,” she asked, muffled by the hood, “does your Circle education give you any insight on our methods? Perhaps how they could be improved?”

All around them were the remains of the work they had done previously. The soil was overturned, soft and loamy from the burying they had done the day before. The areas of Blighted soil and plants had to be stripped bare before they could be encapsulated. Behind them was a wandering path of bare earth through multiple farms, with branches that split off in pursuit of animals that had caught the Blight and died. Ahead of them it was much the same, but where the Blight had touched all was black -- the scavengers overhead didn’t dare land for fear of the poison. The only mercy in the situation was that the Blight was not airborne.

The shorter elf shook his hooded head. He buckled his trousers to his boots so that there was no avenue for the Blight to get in, and answered. “I don’t quite understand the composition of the geodes you are having us lock the darkspawn and Blighted plants into. I’m just following instructions without comprehension.”

Lanaya nodded, an unfortunate reality of Alim going from ‘Circle escapee’ to ‘First’ so quickly was that there was little time to explain anything. “The basic principle is that some stones and metals resist the Blight. Some plants too. We use magic to transmute soil into a combination of those stones and metals, and bury them deep.”

Alim tilted his head, because otherwise there was no way to communicate confusion without words.

“They resist water erosion, they’re not easily broken up by earthquakes, they sink in lava without cracking -- the only way to break them open is with a pick, and lots of patience. Our ancestors spent _a lot_ of time perfecting this spell during previous Blights.”

“And this hasn’t been shared with the Circle, because…?”

“Most Keepers aren’t allowed to speak to Circle mages, you realize. And those that the Templars steal from us are too young to learn this -- like Minaeve. You see? I do know for a fact that the Grey Wardens are aware of the spells. Our clans traded this information to them for knowledge on how to make these protective suits.” With their protective clothes fully secured, the Keeper and her apprentice led the way for the day’s work to be done.

The day’s work was hard. They had to carve up the remains of several ogres before they could seal them away and bury them. Alim, with his spirit-blade helped as the ghostly weapon could slice flesh and bone without getting stuck.

All proceeded well, until the expected happened. A gaggle of humans. Or, perhaps the word was crowd? They approached the elves during cleanup with angry faces and shouted commands. Lanaya quickly ended the spell she had begun to trot over to the humans as her fellow Dalish kept them from touching anything still Blighted.

“What in the void are you elves up to?” One of the human men said, agitated. He gestured to the land behind him where the humans had come from. “We come out to see what the Blight’s done to our homes, and you’ve gone and torn everything up! Whole fields dug up, livestock dead and missing, orchards destroyed -- it’d be one thing if it was the darkspawn,” the man shook his hands in rage, while his words riled up the humans, “but you knife-eared lot have no right!”

“Sir,” Lanaya said as she stepped in front of the hunters and warriors who had met the gaggle already. “I am the Keeper of this clan. We have been cleaning the land around the city of Blight these past few days, nothing more.”

The leader of the group looked at her like she was stupid, and glanced at his fellows. When he saw them scowling, he spoke up just as confident as before. “Fool! All you need to do to clean the Blight out of it is just burn everything the darkspawn have touched!”

“And the darkspawn corpses? And their weapons?”

“You burn those too!”

Lanaya shook her head. “If you burn the bodies, it doesn’t destroy the bones. And if you bury the bones, then they spread small amounts of the Blight every time they touch water. Darkspawn weapons are made in dwarven lava forges -- bonfires simply aren’t hot enough.” Behind her, the Dalish in their protective suits nodded.

“Aren’t hot enough? Fire is fire, fool woman!” He flinched as one of the women in the crowd glared at him, but soon regained his bravery. “And what of our livestock? You stole our rams, and our druffalo, don’t lie!”

“The ones the darkspawn didn’t kill for being alive had already eaten Blighted plants, or started to become ghouls from having been too close to the darkspawn,” Lanaya explained patiently, as if she were confronted by an upset teenager. “Your king was a Grey Warden, he knows the dangers of the Blight more than either of us.”

The humans grumbled, and the leader of the group looked a bit like the wind had gone out of his sails. He tried to rally their outrage once more. “Well -- you still had no right! You Dalish have been here for too long, as is! The Blight’s over, get going!” He got some supportive cheers from his fellows on that count.

Under her mask, Lanaya frowned. “We have business with your King. And even if we didn’t, we have treaties with the Grey Wardens obligating us to help during _and_ after a Blight to help heal the land. Why do you think people still live in Antiva after the last Blight was there for a decade? Because Dalish clans like ours helped clean the Blight, so it wouldn’t take hundreds of years!”

The arguing went back and forth for a while until the sound of armored boots arrived over the hills. In short order, a squad of knights in heavy steel armor came over the hills. At the front was a helmetless warrior woman. Raven-haired, with a massive two-handed sword slung over her back _and_ a shield, she looked thoroughly annoyed to have to be where she was. “What is the meaning of this?” The woman shouted as she came down the hills to face the assembled humans and suited up Dalish.

“Ser Cauthrien,” the human leader said, suddenly demure and accommodating. “We, er, these elves destroyed our farmland, killed our -- “

“ _That’s_ what this is about?” The human woman, Ser Cauthrien glared at the peasant man. “His majesty _asked_ them to help scrub the Blight out of the countryside. Idiots, all of you.” She snarled and swept her hand through the air. “Get back to your land -- the king will provide you new livestock and seeds for your farms as soon as he is able.”

“But, Ser -- “

“Don’t you argue with me, idiot!” The knight dismissively flicked her hand at him. “I have no love for rabbits either, but his majesty’s word is law. Now _go!_ ” 

Lanaya watched the humans leave and saw Cauthrien glare at the Dalish once they had gone.

“Well? Be good little rabbits and get back to work. Countryside won’t clean _itself_!” Whatever their purpose in the area, the knight’s seemed to return to it, and walked off into the countryside. 

As they left, Lanaya saw the sigil on their shields -- a yellow wyvern. The symbol for Gwaren. Lanaya sighed and turned to the elves in their protective suits. “That’s one way to meet our neighbors, I guess. Let’s get back to work. I want to get over to those hills before we wash down for the midday meal.”

\--

A problem manifested itself in the aftermath of the King’s decree and the Dalish lack of response to it. The spies who had attended the celebration had time to get back to their masters about what had been announced before either party had even made a public announcement.

The news was odd, as far as Thedas’ political elites were concerned. A _Blight_ over in less than a year? With a Grey Warden who _survived_ killing the Archdemon? Another Grey Warden had become King of Ferelden? And most shockingly -- given almost a third of his country to the Dalish?

Many powerful people suddenly had questions in need of answers, and the new king had given none yet. Thus it came to be that the hub of the international wheel had to step in, and demand answers. As the Divine was indisposed, it fell to her second in command to leave the Orlesian capital and go out in search of answers. The Right Hand of the Divine started her journey across the mountains, to play the part of a Seeker of Truth once more.

\--

Alistair thought it was another Tuesday, same as the one before, but he was proven wrong when his lady wife slammed a stack of parchment so thick as to be heavy as stone onto his desk. Well it wasn’t actually his desk, it was the seneschal’s, but the royal offices had taken a trebuchet round so they weren’t in a fit state.

“I’m guessing this is the list of things we need to discuss?” The new king asked of the seasoned queen.

“Yes, I went the extra mile to provide short summaries of why each issue needs our attention,” Anora snarled and paced in front of the desk. “Go on, start reading.”

Alistair sighed and put on his reading glasses. He didn’t actually need the glasses, but he thought the half-moon lenses made him look more kingly when he read things. “Item one: getting the Dalish to accept Chantry authority -- what?” He looked up at his wife in bewilderment. “Why is that even on this list?”

“Because every nation in Thedas has to answer to the Chantry, one way or another,” she said, clearly annoyed. “Or they get Exalted Marches called on them. That’s how it works.”

“I’m sure Andraste would approve,” the king snarked. “I’m surprised to hear you taking that stance, isn’t that how the _Orlesians_ spread the chant?”

Anora’s face became even nastier, which honestly surprised Alistair -- he hadn’t known she could get nastier. “It’s the fact of the matter. The Chantry sees itself as above the individual nations, since they only hold power by divine right -- “

“Tell that to the Antivan merchant princes, or the Dwarves.”

“In order: required to operate within the legal framework the Chantry has spelled out, and bound by trade treaties. Also? Not the issue!” Anora curled her hands in a clear attempt to keep her temper down. She took a deep breath, and pointed at the list. “Just read the summary.”

Alistair frowned but did so. “Being outside the Chantry’s purview puts them on the fringes, makes them more easily isolated for a repeat of the Dales.” Alistair sat back in the seneschal’s chair -- it was one of those newfangled swivel chairs, so he had to hastily grab the desk or he felt like he would fall backward. “Nobody saw that,” he weakly joked, but got not so much as a twitch from Anora. “I think… we should talk to the Dalish about how best to repeat the fall of the Dales. As, um, I have to admit -- “

“You don’t know _why_ the Dales fell, do you?” Anora’s eyes were narrowed, like Morrigan used to do when she had realized the depths of Alistair’s ignorance.

“No,” he readily admitted. “I don’t even know _when_. When I asked Mahariel, they said ‘history is complicated’ and I sort of tuned them out for a bit…. Look, I never thought I would be king! I didn’t think I’d _need_ to know!”

“Well, you are! And you do _need_ to know!” Anora grabbed the sides of her head and shook it in disbelief. Without warning, she turned and walked for the door. She opened it, and leaned out to the guards outside to speak sweetly and softly. “Could one of you kindly summon Arl Eamon? We require his expertise.”

“Aye, your majesty,” spoke one, and walked off at a brisk pace.

Anora closed the door, and whirled on her husband with a look of barely concealed disgust. “Cliffnotes version, so you know what sort of questions you need to ask the Dalish and Eamon to get a clearer understanding. Dalish elves refused to let templars or missionaries into their lands, which caused trouble. The tensions got higher until the Second Blight where the Dalish didn’t help Orlais at all. Orlais conquered them afterward as revenge.”

“Ah, right.” Alistair nodded, understanding of the situation. Blights, he knew. “Well, then, let’s uh -- get to the second one on the list.” He looked down and immediately put his head into his hands. “Dalish Keepers the same as Tevinter Magisters? Seriously?”

Anora promptly opened the door again to sweetly whisper to the guard. “Could you quickly pass an order to the kitchen staff? His Majesty and I require some wine.”

\---


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3 -- Complications continue**

Alim walked among the apprentices and junior mages. He made sure everyone had enough to eat, had water or beer to drink, and that they actually ate something. He wasn’t alone in the work, elders from Mansalin clan approached the Circle escapees to introduce themselves. The greying elves played up their grandparental stereotype, and made sure to refer to even the grown Circle elves as ‘da’len’. His consort whispered to him about how the elders taught their juniors how to approach the strangers through example.

To his surprise, they even took to the tranquil that Alim had brought along. He watched in amazement as the Dalish elders took to the tranquil with greater speed and compassion than anyone from the Circle or Templar Order had done -- save Senior Enchanter Wynne. It freed Alim up to double-check on Roscoe and Minaeve.

A good thing too, as he caught Roscoe reaching his hand over to Minaeve while she glanced at a Dalish book -- a rarity -- with the intent to flip the girl’s plate. Whispers in his ears reminded him that food was precious and not to be wasted.

“A- _hem_ ,” Alim spoke up behind Roscoe before the young elf had the chance to waste good food. He crossed his arms, and did his best to make that ‘what do you think you’re doing’ face Wynne would use on him at Roscoe’s age.

The young elf glanced over his shoulder at Alim and flinched when he saw the older mage’s expression. 

Minaeve looked confused as to what had been going on, but then saw Roscoe withdraw his hand quickly. “You were going to flip my plate!”

“No I wasn’t,” Roscoe defended himself, red-faced at having been caught.

Alim stepped in, while Minaeve yelled at Roscoe about being a jerk. He stood between them and crouched down to Roscoe’s level. “We don’t have enough food for you to be wasting it over a grudge,” Alim said, gently. “I know how you feel, but I’m asking you not to hit or swat at Minaeve anymore. We’ll talk about it after you eat, okay?”

“Don’t need to talk,” Roscoe muttered, his eyes fixed solidly on the beans and mutton on his plate.

“But we’re going to.” His consort’s whispers told him he couldn’t let envy become resentment, it had to be fixed soon. Alim stood, and turned to Minaeve. “Let’s switch you with Eadric, okay?” The second youngest and second oldest apprentices switched places with little fuss, which let Alim go off to double-check everyone else.

After he’d completed his rounds, he wanted to go ensure all the protective suits had been cleaned when he was stopped by one of the Dalish with a plate of food. She had silver hair like Velanna or the elders, and the same vallaslin pattern as Ilshae’s First, but she wore heavy armor made of leather with overlapping scales of ironbark on top. One of the warriors, Alim guessed.

“Aneth ara, I’m Seranni. I couldn’t help notice that you made sure all your people had food, but didn’t think to get any for yourself,” she said, and held up the plate for him to take. She held it there until Alim hesitantly took it from her. “You’re just like Velanna or Keeper Ilshae -- you put yourself last.”

“We can’t hunt right now with the Blight infecting everything,” Alim defended and tried to offer the food back. “I can go without a meal or two -- “

She held up her hand to stop him cold. “That’s how it starts,” she said, sad. “Keeper Ilshae made sure everyone in the clan had the food they needed, so that when she got to eat there either wasn’t time, or there wasn’t enough left. Velanna started to show signs of it not too long after. But you cannot pour from an empty vessel, as our storyteller says.”

Alim sighed, and tried to think of a way out of his situation, but one didn’t readily apply. “I… there’s still so much work to do.” Chiding words whispered in his ears from his consort.

“And to do it, you need to eat. Skipping meals too often leads to mistakes, which we cannot afford with the Blight. Come, you can sit with the warriors while the elders look after your da’lens.” She turned and gestured to the ring of elves in the distance, rowdy and roughhousing.

“Oh… okay,” he said, unprepared for a sudden invitation. He hadn’t expected to get the same treatment as his juniors. He was already a First, by default because Lanaya’s clan had no other mages, but still -- he expected hostility.

“It’s okay if you don’t want -- “

“That’s not it. I’m just… too used to the Circle, I guess.” He sighed. “I’d love to eat with you all. Plus it lets me show off my fancy magic sword.” He tried to be cheerful, really he did, but he hadn’t been invited to eat with people in over a decade at that point. He had no idea what to do.

“You’re more like my sister than I thought,” Seranni commented, and lead the way. “Though you don’t shout as much.”

“I heard that!” Someone shouted from elsewhere in the camp.

\--

That night, Keeper Ilshae, Lanaya, and their Firsts met with Mahanon on Deshanna’s behalf and the hahrens of the city elves which had come to live with the Dalish as refugees. They gathered around a fire where the Keepers' aravels blocked them off from the rest of the camp.

Hahrens Valendrian and Shianni both came from the Denerim alienage, and looked visibly out of place in the Dalish camp. They weren’t used to being out of doors at all hours, or camping for so long in such large numbers.

Alim’s healer instinct told him that Valendrian had not been getting enough sleep for a man of his advanced age. But given what the city elves had talked about conditions in the alienage, it was understandable. Shianni looked to be in better health, partly because she was thirty years Valendrian’s junior.

Ilshae and Lanaya glanced at each other, then at the Dalish mages before they addressed the three relative strangers at their fire. “What we’re about to share could cause trouble if it gets out too soon,” Ilshae started, slow, deliberate. “The shemlin king hasn’t announced anything yet, or even called on us to talk, but he will eventually.”

Velanna huffed and rolled her eyes.

Ilshae glanced at her with a disapproving look.

Lanaya cleared her throat and took over. “Mahariel, the Grey Warden, the Hero of Ferelden, they asked the king for a reward. And, well,” she shrugged, barely able to contain her smile. “He gave us Gwaren.”

Alim’s eyes bugged out of his skull. His consort’s whispers stopped. The city elves blinked, and looked at each other in confusion.

“Lady Keeper,” the elder city elf started off with clear annoyance. “Your taste in humor is most inappropriate.”

“This is no jest,” Velanna snapped. “Even though it seems like the setup for one.”

“Gwaren? Like the city?” Shianni spoke up, her voice wavered a little from the surprise.

“All of Gwaren, plus some other land to the west of it,” Ilshae confirmed with a determined expression. “You are leaders for your people, and we will want your counsel when we negotiate specific terms with the shemlin king. If all goes well, we would like to have your counsel even after that, as we build our nation.”

“It will be a while before we can truly be called a nation, there is still the Blight to clean up.” Lanaya’s cheer dimmed a bit, before it perked right up. “But the Grey Wardens from Orlais will come and help, which will speed up the process.”

“None of the Dalish have lived in cities, or near them, long enough in living memory to know how to rebuild them or how to govern them.” Ilshae had no venom in her words as she admitted that, though her First looked chagrined. “Let alone a nation.”

Alim listened, to both the Keeper and the whispers that lingered in his ears. “Gwaren’s economy was in its coastal positioning,” he said. Circle education came in handy for once. “Fishing, whaling, international trade, moving people and ideas. That sort of thing.”

Valendrian processed the truth of the situation, and began to rattle off names of alienage elves he knew who worked at the Denerim docks. “None of them are ship captains, but they’ll be able to get the infrastructure of the docks working again for the city of Gwaren,” he admitted. “But… there are Dalish from all over, right? Will they bring more city elves with them?”

“Some will,” Mahanon commented. “Some won’t get the chance. Some will have to come all the way through Orlais to get there, so they won’t be able to support a large march of elves. But the more who come by sea, the better chance we have.”

“The shemlin will also prey on them on the roads,” Velanna spat. “It was the same when the Dales were granted to us.”

“Last time there were no Dalish there to protect them,” Alim fired back with pinched brows. “The elves who settled the Dales were freed slaves. The ones who come here will have the benefit of history, and people who learned from that history,” he indicated the traditional Dalish with his hands. “Have some _hope_ , won’t you?”

“I’ll have hope when the shemlin announce this without needing to _ask_ them to acknowledge their promises.” Velanna didn’t look away from Alim’s eyes, as many Dalish had before. “They’re fickle. They’ve always been fickle.”

“Well then, how do we stop it from happening again?”

Mahanon cleared his throat to gain a window to speak. “The Dales had no allies,” he said authoritatively. “Ferelden didn’t exist at the time, and the Avvar didn’t believe in allies outside their clans.” He looked plaintively at Velanna. “The situation has changed, the nuances have changed. We’re going to have elves from all across Thedas come to live in this country, we’ll have a wide array of cultures and skills available to us. That flexibility can be our strength.”

“Half of the work will be keeping the peace between all the clans,” Lanaya muttered. “You know how they argue at the gatherings.”

Velanna looked down at the fire, and sighed. Apparently the clans didn’t all get along.

Alim could work with that. “Mahanon is right, the situation is different. But it’s not so different that we can’t prepare for it. So let’s talk preparations we can make.”

\--

Cassandra Pentaghast strode the halls of Denerim’s palace surrounded by Ferelden guards. At her side was the Grand Cleric Elemena. They were two birds of a feather, it seemed. Both women who valued their freedom to choose and would fight to protect others. Cassandra didn’t much care for how lax Elemena had been recently, but it was an aberration in her career. Something which could be remedied, if the situation called for it.

Cassandra hadn’t believed the Blight could be over so soon, but she had seen the landscape as she road in from Orlais over the weeks. The land was Blighted, but there were no waves of darkspawn. Aside from rumors of darkspawn activity near Amaranthine, there wasn’t so much as a ghoul to be seen.

Denerim had taken a beating -- the city was still in shambles. But it would recover. The horde had only attacked the city, not occupied it. There was hope.

But there was also trouble. She got to see that trouble as they approached the throne room. Seated on the massive Ferelden throne in the golden armor of his predecessor was the new king, Alistair Theirin, of Calenhad’s blood. Or so he claimed.

The castle seneschal approached them at the base of the stairs which led up to the throne, and bade the guards step away. “Grand Cleric, Seeker,” he greeted them with two short bows. “The Ferelden court welcomes you. May I introduce, Alistair -- king of Ferelden!” A bit of pomp and ceremony, trifling relative to the elaborate displays the Orlesians or Nevarrans would partake in. The seneschal turned and stepped back while the new King rose from his throne.

It was a peculiar stance to take, to leave the seat of his power and advance on them. Right away, Cassandra could see he had a sword and shield on his back, much as Cassandra did.

“You’ll forgive the armor and the sword, I hope,” Alistair greeted them informally, “seeing as you brought your own.”

“That depends on how this discussion ends,” Cassandra said, sardonic. “I have come as representative of the Divine. She would like to know more about how this situation has come to be.”

“Alright, well… I’m not a very good storyteller, so I’ll just do the cliff notes version, alright?”

Thus began the brief version of an expansively long story that Cassandra was convinced contained about two and a half dozen lies, insofar as the king’s ability to sass so many powerful people and not be throttled. Of particular note were the parts about the temple of sacred ashes, and the massacre at Kinloch Hold.

“You did not annul the Circle?” Cassandra asked Elemena, shocked, when that part of the story concluded.

Elemena did not meet her eyes. “It was unnecessary,” she said, as if it explained everything.

“ _Unnecessary_? From his description alone, less than thirty mages out of almost _four hundred_ survived. How can you tell that none of the survivors are possessed but subtler demons than rage, or hunger?”

Elemena calmly lifted her head and met Cassandra’s eyes. There she saw steel that would put a sword to shame. “Those mages immediately marched from the tower to the front lines to fight the darkspawn. All of them, even the youngest apprentices. Abominations are incapable of altruism. It was unnecessary.”

“Not entirely true, but it’s close enough,” Alistair commented, with a measure of levity. “You want me to start on the next bit? It has werewolves in it!”

Cassandra did indeed want to hear about the werewolves, but she was obligated to be confrontational. “Is this all truly necessary, majesty?”

“Well, given what I’m sure the Divine will have _words_ about -- probably.” Alistair launched into his story again, and included obviously falsified details about how he had rescued his dwarf companion from being swallowed by a dragon. He insisted they were true, which only proved how false they were. No dwarf would be so undignified that they would be in a position to be swallowed.

However there was one thing which Cassandra couldn’t countenance in the story. “Blood magic? Blood magic!?” Cassandra looked at Elemena for support, and saw that the Grand Cleric was as shocked as she. “This Zathrian was a blood mage?”

“He’s dead now,” Alistair said, his voice flat with his hands on his hips. “What does it matter?”

“It matters because you say his clan came to help you! How many of this clan are blood mages? What of his First?” Cassandra scowled and slashed her hand through the air. “She must be interrogated immediately.”

“That’s not going to happen.” The king crossed his arms and looked down at the women with iron in his eyes. Not quite steel, but similar. “She hasn’t shown any signs of even _knowing_ blood magic. She fought in the battle -- I _watched_. Blood mages don’t have the self-restraint to resist using it in a fight.”

“That is not for you to decide,” Elemena sternly rebuked the king. “It is the Chantry’s.”

“Really? What’s the burden of proof on ‘not being a blood mage’, these days?” Alistair arched his eyebrows. “How does this situation end with you being convinced she’s not guilty?”

It didn’t, Cassandra knew. She would take her turn at interrogation, then the Templar Order would, then the wardens of the mage’s prison. Eventually, the elf would confess and be executed. It must have shown on her face, because Alistair’s expression darkened.

“If you ask her about it, it happens on the terms the Dalish set. They’re my allies, not my subjects.”

“Her clan lives within your borders -- “

“Not anymore.” Alistair’s dark expression lightened a bit as he shrugged. “Well… technically, but also not? The decree’s been made, but we’re working out our position before we go into negotiations, and I’ve got like a couple hundred policy positions I need to think about.” He shook his head. “Anyway. I have given land to the Dalish to rule however they see fit. They’re not there right now because I’ve asked them to stay for our talks, and to keep the terms of the Grey Warden treaty.”

Cassandra blinked, once, then twice. “That is… unexpected.”

“I know, right?” Alistair chuckled. “You shoulda seen my wife’s face when I made the announcement. She looked like she wanted to murder me then and there.” His smile dropped as he thought some more. “Um. Maybe that joke was in bad taste… given recent events.”

“Good to know the Maker gave you _some_ capacity for self-reflection,” the Grand Cleric muttered. She turned to look at Cassandra and nodded. “It’s true, though. The lands he’s given to them were hit hard by the Blight. With their abundance of apostate mages, their unique way of dealing with the Blight and the Blight’s short duration, they will see the lands repaired within a couple year’s time.”

Cassandra sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “That’s… ugh.” She took a deep breath. “I’m glad that they’re helping Ferelden recover from the Blight. But this is going to get messy. _Politically_ messy.”

“So let’s set a date and time for the negotiations, hmm? I expect you’ll want it to be soonish, but far enough away that you can run back to Orlais and get a diplomat over here?”

“None would have the authority to act,” she said though it made her sick to say it. “I am the Right Hand of the Divine, I’m her lieutenant. With her unavailable, it falls to me.” She scowled. “Even though I hate it.”

“You know, I hate it too!” Alistair smiled broad. “Maybe we can get through this with our mutual hatred of politics.”

If only it were so easy, Cassandra thought to herself.

\---


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4 -- Preconceptions, Careless Trust**

“Alright everyone,” Alistair said as he sat at one end of a long rectangular table. Opposite him was Lanaya, while Cassandra sat between them on the broad side. “I think about a month and a half is enough time to talk officially about this. Shall we begin negotiations?”

“A moment, majesty,” Lanaya replied as her expression became plaintive. “I must ask we postpone these talks. There is still land to clean of the Blight, and my clan needs every set of hands we have to pull their weight.”

“Your dedication to this task, if genuine, does you credit,” Cassandra said, cool as an iceberg. “However, the Chantry must also object. This woman is suspected of practicing blood magic, another representative must be chosen.”

Lanaya did a double-take and scowled at Cassandra. “Excuse me?”

Casandra met her eyes with conviction. “Your clan’s previous Keeper was a blood mage. We cannot know how many of your mages are blood mages in turn.”

“Well, um,” Alistair said as he saw the beginnings of a brawl at the negotiating table. “Maybe it _is_ best if we postponed things a little.”

“The Keeper of one of the other clans would suffice,” Cassandra admitted as Lanaya’s scowl deepened. “Your First and Seconds, unfortunately, cannot be ruled out as also being blood mages.”

“My First and Seconds,” Lanaya all but snarled, “died defending this country. The mages my clan has now were moved to our clan from Sylenaste and Lavellan clans.”

“I see.” Cassandra’s stern face did not relax. “Still, another clan would be preferable.”

“Hold on, hold on,” Alistair said as he held up his hands, “let’s all just back off, and -- “

“No.” The Seeker turned to meet Alistair’s eyes as she had Lanayas. “Already the negotiations will be challenged by the presence of mages at the table. There are at least five Grand Clerics who will declare these talks invalid because the mage could have been a blood mage. It will only be worse by having her here when she is suspected of it.”

“Glad to know you can justify your prejudice,” Lanaya commented. “We are in agreement, however, in that these talks must be delayed.”

“We are,” Cassandra nodded. Given her stance on Lanaya’s presence, she was rather accomodating and personable.

That somehow made it worse, in Alistair’s mind. Like she didn’t see enough of an issue with it to be angry or harsh. It was like delaying because someone hadn’t worn shoes to the meeting, a small issue -- which happened to be Lanaya.

“Alright, I understand both of your positions,” Alistair started, and said something he really ought not to have. “But -- how does the Chantry negotiate with Tevinter Magisters if even the suspicion of blood magic can get people off the negotiating table.”

Lanaya and Cassandra both looked at him like his face had split in half, revealing a shrieking maw.

“The Chantry _doesn’t_ negotiate with Tevinter,” Cassandra responded in a low tone.

“There was an Exalted March about it,” Lanaya added, her tone confused. Like she couldn’t understand how Alistair had forgotten. “A whole schism in the faith.”

“There was? Um. I guess I missed… that history lesson.”

The two women looked at him with utter bewilderment until he formally put the negotiations in recess, whereupon they stood and left. Neither said anything, but Cassandra gave a disgusted ‘ugh’ as she departed.

Alistair remained at the table as his advisors, Eamon, and Anora entered the room.

“Alistair,” Eamon started, distraught. “We told you not to even acknowledge Tevinter’s existence!”

“Yeah, I know,” Alistair sighed, and put his head in his hands.

“Ferelden still might face reprisals for selling our citizens to Tevinter, we told you.”

“Yeah, I know.” Alistair sank into his seat, like he hoped he could fall into an abyss between the back and the cushion.

Anora said nothing at first, but Alistair saw her face redden up in fury as her hands clawed at the air in a fit of pique. “Headaches,” she muttered. “You give me _headaches_!” The queen turned and stormed away from her husband and his foster father, her face a stormcloud of emotions.

“Could you get someone with a crossbow to just…,” Alistair made a ‘fwip’ sound, and jabbed his finger into the side of his head. “Right here? Please?”

\--

It was five months after the Blight ended when the ships began to arrive.

The first ships bore Kirkwall’s flags on their masts as they arrived in Denerim. The locals found this odd, for usually Free Marches ships stopped in Amaranthine first. But the reason why they had come to Denerim’s battered docks became clear -- elves.

Shiploads of Dalish elves, with their strange and beautiful halla, their magic-propelled aravels, and city elves who had joined them. On the one hand, it was a sudden surge of people with at least _some_ coin and interest in spending, but on the other hand -- elves.

Those who could look past their prejudices prospered, and those that could not found themselves increasingly alone. It wasn’t even an overwhelming surge, less than three hundred people, but to the racists it was the beginning of the end.

In the Denerim market, a man went to the cryer’s stand with his wife and children as props. He had been modestly wealthy before the battle, and had lost everything to the darkspawn. His clothes told that story, unwashed, muddy, but clearly of decent make when they had been new. People noticed that his children had shoes.

“People!” He shouted, to those who would listen or just went about their days nearby. “The elves are coming! They come to take the homes and jobs we lost in the Blight! They’re coming by ships now, but it won’t be long until whole caravans of them come into our lands!”

Not many stopped to listen, but a few did.

“Like wolves, they smell the blood of our fallen! They sense that Ferelden is weak, unable to resist them! First, they will abide by our laws. But in time, their numbers will grow, and ours shrivel! Our king will be forced to raise some to nobility -- and then what? Bowing before knife-ears? Saying ‘yes ser, no ser, how may I serve you ser’ to _elves_?! Is that the future we want for this country?!”

Some elves were in the market that day. They did not stop to listen -- for they had heard such talks before. Every time a catastrophe hit humans harder than a gentle breeze, they heard it. But some humans heard it, and they noticed the elves who had no reaction to it. They stopped to listen to more.

“Ferelden is _our_ land! Andraste’s land! They had theirs, and they lost it to Orlais! That’s their fault, not ours! We cannot sit back and let them take our land to replace what they’ve lost!”

The man had used up his free time on the cryer’s stand, so the guards forced him and his family to leave. His wife looked ready to die of shame. However, he came the next day and did the same. And the next day. Every day his sermon became more hyperbolic, more inflammatory.

And more people listened, as more ships of elves appeared.

At first the ships had the flags of Kirkwall. Then they had the flags of Antiva, Nevarra, Rivain, and most infuriating of all -- Orlais.

Then things got worse.

A royal decree was nailed to the chanter’s board of every chantry in Ferelden that was still open to the public. “By decree of His Royal Majesty Alistair Theirin, the Dalish people are awarded the lands previously under the dominion of the traitor Loghain Mac Tir. Additionally, the Stenhold arling, and Ostagar bannorn are awarded to the Dalish people as well -- for their lords have died without heirs. A new nation will result from this division, independent of Ferelden -- recognized and validated by Ferelden’s King; Lasalasan.”

Naturally, the bigots felt they had been proven right.

\--

Mahanon felt a mix of emotions as he packed the aravels for the trip to Gwaren. With every new clan that had come to Ferelden they were able to clear more and more land of the Blight. It would still take years to repair the whole south of the nation -- but with less burnout among the brave souls who participated.

He looked over to the aravels of Sylenaste clan and saw a lack of energy among them. Keeper Ilshae had been called in to serve as interim negotiator for the Dalish when Lanaya had been asked to step out. Every day, she had to go into Denerim and face hours of talks with the shemlin. She hadn’t been in the best health, and the experience wasn’t good for her.

With many healers in attendance, and the grudging allowance of Alim’s spirit healer assistance, she had avoided a brush with death. But it was unknown if she would recover. Years of almost starving herself had taken their toll.

Mahanon watched Velanna all but force herself to keep moving -- to keep working to prepare her clan for the long road to their land. The sight reminded him of Alim on his first night among the Dalish.

“She’ll see any help I try to offer as pity,” he told himself.

“You should still offer it anyway,” he said back.

He packed a stack of firewood into the aravel, took a deep breath, and walked over to Velanna’s. For a moment after he arrived, she didn’t even acknowledge he had arrived -- that was fine, he was content to wait.

“What is it?” Velanna finally asked, her tone defeated.

“You seemed despondent,” Mahanon said. “I was wondering -- “

“No,” Velanna snapped and brandished the cutlery she had been packing at him. “I don’t need to _talk_ about it.”

“Actually, I was going to offer to let you vent to me. Just… take it out on me, so you don’t have to bottle it up.”

Velanna blinked, and lowered the steak knife she had brandished. “What?”

“Shout at me, throw things if you want, I’ll take it.” Mahanon didn’t know if he ought to smile encouragingly or act confident.

It was only later, when he had to sit down and let Alim heal his swollen eye and busted jaw that inviting the woman with a temper and strong throwing arm to throw things at him to vent her emotions was a _poor decision_.

“For what it’s worth,” Alim commented as he forced Mahanon’s teeth back into realignment, “I think it was quite nice. Also you took a broken jaw like a champ. Don’t speak,” he snapped when Mahanon tried to move his jaw. “I’m not done.”

When Mahanon’s jaw was repaired, Alim moved to heal the rest of the Lavellan elf which let him have the chance to speak. “Might I ask -- how does a spirit of unity lend itself to healing?”

“Compassion spirits are the best fit for healing -- they have a natural sense of pain and suffering. Unity wants to understand people, to make them part of the group.” Alim’s golden hands passed across Mahanon’s body and mended minor injuries with ease. “It helps me find the cause of the problems -- and I use my healing magic to do the rest.”

“Hmm.” Mahanon narrowed his eyes slightly and considered. “As someone with formal Circle training -- you might be one of the most learned mages about demons and spirits among the Dalish.”

“As I’ve been reminded many times, I’m not Dalish. Not yet.” There was no bitterness in Alim’s voice, but it seemed like something a person would be bitter about. “Which brings me to a question I’ve been meaning to ask -- this new land isn’t the Dales. Are… you still going to be callled Dalish?”

Mahanon gave it some thought, and nodded. “We are still descended from the elves of the Dales, so the name will likely stay. It will just stop meaning what it does now -- and refer just to us as shared culture.”

Alim nodded in acceptance and finished the last of the healing with a flourish. “There, that’s done -- don’t invite Velanna to throw anything else at you.” The former Circle mage stood and was about to return to packing things up when he whipped his head around toward Denerim.

“Something the matter?”

“Get the children onto the aravels,” Alim responded, hushed. “A human mob is coming.”

That was the sort of thing that _was not_ joked about among the Dalish, so Mahanon didn’t even entertain the possibility. He didn’t even ask how Alim knew -- that was how serious such words were taken. He was on his feet and running through the camp as fast as his legs could carry him. “Warriors! Archers! A shemlin mob approaches!” As he passed, city elves joined their Dalish neighbors in hastily preparing; they had all suffered a purge before. “Da’lens into the aravels! Everyone who can hold a blade -- be ready!”

In the past months, the campsite for the Dalish had grown as more clans came, but it had shrunk down again as they departed for Gwaren in recent days. Once more it was just the three original clans -- with help too far away to call back.

Mahanon ran like his life depended on it, and made sure the halla understood the danger. The white stag-like creatures left their pastures to come to the aravels without prompting -- they were not beasts of burden, but friends of the Dalish. They knew the danger.

“Everyone! Guard the aravels as they leave! Do not risk your lives for trinkets!”

Mahanon made sure his people were looked after, he helped get some of their little ones into the aravels, and sent the first halla pulled vehicles off well before he saw the light of torches against the hills. Oh great, he thought. One of _those_ mobs, torches and pitchforks.

Dalish and city elf warriors guarded the aravels as they started to leave the camp -- three clans together was not a small force, so there was no reason to suspect that they couldn’t hold out against the shems.

But then the mob came over the hill, and Mahanon saw the glint of armored figures at the front of the mob. A sudden chill came over him.

He saw Mansalin clan’s aravels start to leave, and trotted over to their section of the camp. It took him a moment to find Lanaya as she was on the move as well. He saw her in the middle of giving orders to her clan’s warriors, and met up with her.

“I see the armored humans too,” she told him after he instructed her where to look. “Please, keep Velanna’s temper from exploding,” the young Keeper pleaded with him. “The last thing we need is a repeat of Red Crossing.”

An arrow embedded itself in the ground near them, and they realized they had less time to plan than they thought.

“Warriors, split between guarding the aravels and keeping the humans at bay. Archers, warning shots as they approach. If you’re fired upon, take out their archers.”

Mahanon ran off, to find the Sylaneste clan’s First before her temper got them all Marched upon again. Sylaneste clan’s aravels hadn’t left yet -- and the reason was clear. Ilshae’s aravel hadn’t left yet. Mahanon heard shouting from the clan as he approached. Ilshae wouldn’t leave until everyone else had gone, and Velanna wouldn’t leave her to risk harm from the shemlin.

One of her clan’s warriors argued with her and the Keeper as Mahanon approached.

“I am still Keeper of this clan -- you must away! I can bid the soil to slow their adv-hance…,” Ilshae started strong in her condemnation of her First. However as she spoke she began to cough, until she was doubled over from it.

“Ilshae, you are ill. Please, lead the way for our people to get away from here!” Velanna pleaded, as she tried to push the thinner, older woman into an aravel.

“Un-ha-ckh me….”

“Sister,” the warrior argued. “You could solve this if you _both_ left -- we have enough mages from the Seconds and the other clans, trust in them and the warriors.”

Mahanon arrived, and did not even pause to catch his breath. “Listen to her,” he said as he pointed at the warrior. “Archers are firing on us, your clan needs to go or it will be too late!”

“They will chase us all the way to the coast,” Ilshae warned. “They did it to Marethari, they’ll do it to us.” She wanted to say more, but the words caught in her throat as she coughed.

“Seranni, help me get her into the aravel before she has a fit.” Velanna waved at her clan’s warrior -- her sister, Mahanon realized. She looked so different in full armor, he hadn’t realized.

“I’m tempted to shove you both in there,” Seranni snapped. “We can’t stand around if they’re really firing at -- “

Her words cut off into a sudden wet gurgle. Mahanon looked and saw an arrow had landed in the gap in her armor between her helmet and chestplate. 

“Seranni!” Velanna went to her sister as the warrior stumbled back. For once there wasn’t even a scrap of annoyance about her, replaced with desperation. “Seranni!”

Mahanon snapped out of shock to shout to the stunned clan. “ **Move!** They’re shooting to kill! In the aravels and **go**!”

Ilshae didn’t fight as Mahanon and Velanna got the downed warrior into her aravel or how the Mythal-marked First glared at her until she too joined them. In moments, the halla knew it was time to flee and ran at full speed. Everyone who couldn’t stay to fight remained behind and fight.

\--

In the year 9:31 Dragon, the Dalish elves were given a new homeland carved out of Ferelden as a reward for the Hero of Ferelden’s efforts during the Fifth Blight. Racial tensions had built up for months as Dalish clans spread the word amongst themselves and city elves long before the human population was informed by royal decree.

When it was announced, riots broke out in Denerim. The elven alienage, purged the year before and partially sold to slavers by the regent Loghain Mac Tir, was burned to the ground along with any elves that had not joined the Dalish encampment outside the city. Rather than putting an end to the riots, several among the city guards aided the rioters both in their purge of unaffiliated elves in Denerim and in their march against the Dalish.

Reports conflicted about the confrontation with the Dalish. Members of the mob said they aimed to scare the elves away, and only retaliated against attacks on them. Those of the Dalish who would speak about it described it as an angry mob come to butcher them all. Regardless, all members of the city guard who participated in the riots were summarily executed, their families denied death benefits, and the bodies displayed alongside those of outright traitors around Fort Drakon.

For the elves of Ferelden, and the humans who remained in the territories of the new nation, Lasalasan, things were understandably tense.

\---

Five internet cookies if you can guess what Lasalasan translates to. Four chapters in, and we have our first bit of violence and the official beginning of the nation-building stage of the fic. Woohoo!


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5 -- In the open air**

Gwaren was a city of wealth and taste which many foreigners found wasted on Ferelden. There were no packed dirt streets in the city, even the poorest regions had cobbled roads at least. Several of the buildings along the wharf had sported domes with pointed pinnacles -- many had remarked on the similarity to onions. The darkspawn had ransacked the town, burned parts of it, and despoiled others. Before the city could even be entered, days of work had to be invested in clearing the Blight and rubble. Then came necessary but unpleasant talks among those clans which had gone ahead -- how would they feed all those who had followed them?

By the time the last three clans from the Denerim camp arrived, a solution hadn’t been agreed upon.

Shianni was one of the few hahrens of city elves that had made the journey -- most had remained behind in their alienages, while the young and excited hopped onto ships with the Dalish. She had a lot of work to do, distributing the food which was available and making sure everyone had a place to stay. There were lots of empty houses for people to choose from -- most of the elves hadn’t ever had a stone house before. More of the Dalish had never had a home at all.

For weeks the Dalish had been teaching those who wished to learn the history of the Dales, and the legends of their people. After they came to Gwaren, it was the city elves’ turn to teach -- most of them started with how to work a proper kitchen.

Shortly after she was invited to a gathering of the hahrens, hahren’al or something -- her Dalish language classes hadn’t advanced far -- she saw how the Dalish solved disputes. Lots of yelling.

The Keepers argued amongst themselves. The hunters argued with the storytellers. The crafters argued with themselves and the city-elves, and nothing that the beastmasters said was listened to enough to be argued with. It would be one thing if it happened on an average day, in a building where the fighting was hidden. But instead it happened in the outdoors, in the campsite, where everyone could hear. When snow began to fall, reminding Shianni that it was winter and there was not nearly enough of any resource to last it, she got fed up with it.

She took a flask of Antivan fire from an alchemist’s table and threw it into the great bonfire at the center of the camp. Antivan fire was volatile enough to burn from sunlight, but added to fire it produced a great tower of flame which caught everyone’s attention.

“Order!” She shouted, as everyone looked at the source of the flame. “Order! We are not here to bicker! Our people will starve unless we do something for food!”

“Who permits this flat-ear to speak,” shouted a hunter from a clan she couldn’t identify. He whirled around, disgusted with everyone he saw. “These lands are for the Dalish, not those who turned their back on the people!”

“We came to live with you, to learn your ways,” Alim said as he walked from the Keeper’s section to stand beside Shianni. “That is not turning our backs.”

“You trying to silence us because we aren’t Dalish enough for your liking, however, _is_!” Shianni looked at the hunter with contempt and shook her head. “Do you think your gods will _care_ if we meet _your_ standard of being Dalish? Or will they care that we couldn’t work together enough to _feed_ our people?”

“She speaks true,” shouted Ilshae from among the Keepers. She was confined to a wheelchair, too weak to stand, and covered in blankets. She gestured with her head, and another Keeper helped wheel her to the front. “We can set aside our bickering long enough to see that none of us starve or freeze to death. There is work that needs doing!”

“And how will we do that?!” The hunter who had spoken out against Shianni spoke up again. “Our hunters cannot hunt all the game in this area -- or there will be nothing come spring! The shemlin farms are all Blighted or destroyed to lock the Blight away -- there’s simply not enough!”

“Wrong!” Shianni spoke up again. She remembered something Alim had told her months ago -- something she had held onto for exactly situations like what she found herself. “Gwaren was a major trading port before the Blight -- but it was also a major producer of fish!” She looked around, with eagerness and energy in the face of the Dalish doubt. “The fish of the frozen sea are abundant enough to feed us!”

“The darkspawn burned the boats!” Someone from the back of the hunters shouted.

“Then we’ll turn the aravels _into_ boats! They won’t haul as much fish, but we have lots of them!”

“None of us know how to fish!”

Shianni rebuked that with ease and a smile. “But we ‘flat-ears’ do. We have people who worked on the docks of a dozen different cities -- some on ships too! We’ll teach you!”

Naturally, the nature of the bickering then turned into which clan would give up their aravels to become the beginning of a fishing fleet.

\--

Whispers in his ears told Alim how to help when he needed to. They told him how to twist ropes into nets for the fishermen, with both his hands and magic -- which he could then teach to the younger former Circle mages. Then, when they were out of rope, the whispers told him how to spin threads into more which he also passed on.

Mansalin clan had taken up residence in what had once been a nobleman’s estate -- a sprawling manor with a domed roof over the ballroom. It provided a lot of space for the clan to share and still live in a commune of sorts. No one had been more surprised than Alim when the whispers in his ears told him how to repair the damage from fire and darkspawn siege weapons.

In hindsight, it was obvious. The destruction was an injury that could be healed -- it was all in the perception of it.

Aside from minor distrust over the knowledge coming from a spirit, the other former Circle mages were able to pick up on the method and begin disseminating it to the Dalish. Alim spent a good portion of the day repairing buildings so elves could move in.

And when he was too magically exhausted to continue, he returned to his quarters with the intent to work on a spinning wheel. Imagine his surprise when he found Roscoe in his room -- hiding away between his bed and an armoire.

“What’s the matter?” Alim asked, though the whispers in his ears told him what the issue was. It was important that Roscoe admitted it.

The young elf hid his face in his knees and pulled them tight against his body. “Minaeve found her clan, and went back.”

“Isn’t that what you wanted? For her to leave?”

Roscoe shook his head, still pressed into his knees.

Alim crouched down so he could look the boy in the eyes when he worked up the strength to look at him. 

It took the boy some time to find that strength. He clearly was fighting back the urge to cry about it as he finally gave voice to his feelings. “Why does she get to go home? Why does she get her family back? I was good, I did what the Maker wanted….”

Despair and anger were recipes for dangerous dreams in a young mage. Alim knew from experience. The whispers in his ears told him how to help the boy, and he didn’t hesitate. The older mage spread his arms for an invitation to hug, which Roscoe accepted. “I know we’re not your old family. But all the other Circle mages, including Minaeve, know how it feels to lose it -- we can take the broken pieces of our families and put them together for a new one, sound good?”

“It’s not the same.”

“No, it isn’t. But it might help it hurt less.”

While Roscoe calmed down, Alim went to work on that spinning wheel. Rams from the Brecilian Forest had been caught and eaten on the way to Gwaren, naturally their wool need to be worked into fabric for making clothes.

Roscoe sat on Alim’s bed as the older mage spun the wool into thread. “I didn’t know you knew how to spin,” he commented.

“I didn’t,” Alim replied. “But I’ve learned. It’s going to be cold this winter, so I want to do whatever I can to help. Maybe I’ll take up knitting and make horrible sweaters for everyone.” The whispers in his ears began to tell him about how to measure for such horrible sweaters and how to knit them so that they looked hideous, but retained their warmth. He shook his head to get them out -- he wanted to focus on spinning.

“Is it weird?” Roscoe’s question was so vague that Alim had to stop spinning to get clarification from him. “Being out of the tower, that is. Having no templars, no Enchanters. You grew up with that, right?”

“It is,” Alim admitted. He went back to spinning to distract himself from memories. “If I’d become a full Knight-Enchanter, I’d have been allowed to leave more often.” They had him train with a wooden stick against Templars in full armor. “Not all the Templars were bad, you know. Some, however, were awful. I’m glad to be rid of them.” Grasping hands, smirks that casually threatened tranquility, hungry eyes. “The same for some of the Enchanters.” Alim couldn’t bring himself to miss Irving, even after what the man had suffered. “It’s weird -- but better.” The whispers in his ears let him take a deep breath, and suddenly all that pain was far away.

“Do you… miss your family?”

“Every day,” Alim lied as easily as breathing, in tune with the whispers. “I remember how my parents were, and I try to be as good to you guys as they were to me.” It would be easier for him to understand the lie than the truth.

The two were quiet for a while, with only the creaking of the spinning wheel to break the silence. 

Whispers in his ears told him what Roscoe wasn’t willing to bring up yet, so Alim stood up. “Come, let’s go see if any of the fishermen have returned yet so we can eat.”

\--

To put it bluntly, Cassandra’s favorite way to put things, the Grand Clerics did not take the news well. Her report to Divine Beatrix was that the rumors about Ferelden’s partitioning of its land into a new elven nation were correct, that she had secured some of what she anticipated the Chantry’s demands to be, but was unable to get even a quarter as neither Ferelden or the Dalish were willing to compromise.

The Grand Cathedral of Val Royeaux was beautiful, the room where the sunburst throne sat for the Divine’s uses even more so. It stood as a stark contrast to the ugly talks that transpired inside.

Grand Cleric Victoire of the Dales was the first to speak after Cassandra’s report. Like all Grand Clerics, she had a white habit with red and gold embroidery, plus a mitre of the same design. Victoire was and older woman, so it must have taken her considerable effort to shout so loud. “Seeker, what is the meaning of this?”

Still in her armor, unconcerned with the Grand Cleric’s apoplectic mood, Cassandra drawled her reply. “I see no outrageous elements of my report that have not been explained thoroughly, your grace.”

A mild uproar from Victoire and the other Grand Clerics in attendance resulted. “We sent you to investigate -- and you come back with an invalid treaty? You overstep your bounds!”

“Does the Left Hand concur with that sentiment?” Cassandra cast her gaze over at the hooded figure beside Beatrix. Nothing of their figure was visible -- Cassandra had literally never seen who the person underneath was. They weren’t close, even professionally.

The hooded Left Hand shook their head, and looked to the Divine, as did Cassandra.

Divine Beatrix III was senile, she had lived for so long that her mind had withered away. At times, flashes of the woman who had occupied the throne just years earlier would come through -- but they had grown rarer as time went on. The ancient woman looked up from her hands at Cassandra, and waved with a smile.

Cassandra returned in kind, and focused on the Grand Cleric. “It would seem the Divine and the Left Hand disagree with you.”

Victoire fumed a moment before she ceded the floor. 

The Grand Cleric of Val Royeaux, Marcelline, stood up next. “What are the exact terms of the treaty?”

Cassandra took a deep breath and braced herself for another round of shouting. “First, the Dalish would not forbid the worship of the Maker, and would allow chantries to be built or repaired within their borders. Humans and city elves who wish to worship may do so without reprisal.”

Many of the Grand Clerics frowned -- that was such a basic promise, why would she lead with that?

“However, members of the chantry are not expected to have a seat on the nation’s governing body, the hahren’al.” Cassandra weathered the storm that exploded from the comparatively minor slight against the chantry. “Their representative said that it would not be impossible, but that it was a decision for all the clans to reach themselves.” Her next announcement was no better. “The Dalish will not submit to the Circle of Magi system, with the support of the King of Ferelden. Furthermore, all members of the Templar Order are banned from entrance to the nation barring a Blight.”

“Unacceptable!” “We cannot allow a Tevinter in the south!” “We must rally the faithful for an Exalted March immediately!”

“No!” Divine Beatrix spoke for the first time in the assembly. She pointed her finger at the Grand Cleric who called for the March and glared. “No. Bad.”

“Most Holy has spoken,” Cassandra drawled. “The Dalish negotiator said the hahren’al is not made of mages exclusively. It is made of respected elders from all walks of life, with the expectation of cooperation.”

“Mages free of the Circles will make that country a haven for apostates,” Grand Cleric Victoire all but snarled.

“Perhaps. We cannot know for sure. While members of the Templar Order are banned from the nation, members of the Seekers of Truth who are not also part of the Order can come and go freely, provided they apply for travel papers -- once there is a process, of course.”

“They do not know to fear the Seekers,” another Grand Cleric commented. “It will be their ruin.”

“We will see.”

Victoire stood up again. “We must send word to the faithful to stop the Dalish clans who try to travel to this new nation -- if we limit their numbers, it will slow their development for potentially decades.” She smirked. “Plenty of time to find justification to censure them.”

Cassandra narrowed her eyes. “It is unbecoming of a Grand Cleric to plot in such a way; and it would not work. The King of Ferelden has asked that we aid the developing nation. That the kindness of the Maker be used to show these elves we are not their enemy.”

Laughter. The Grand Clerics largely met the request with laughter. Some were too sombre for it, Elthina of Kirkwall for instance. But most found the very idea hilarious.

“The ramblings of a man unfamiliar with politics.” Marcelline commented, amusement thick in her voice. “Let the rabbits starve and freeze, perhaps the ‘kindness of the Maker’ will be most effective in spring.”

Not for the first time, Cassandra wished these meetings would be held in public. So that everyone could see the heinous words these supposedly holy women strung together.

\--

Velanna carefully stirred the fish stew. She wanted to make sure the elfroot regeneration potion that had been added for Seranni and Ilshae’s sakes was distributed evenly. Nothing else mattered to her, not the clan, not the country, nothing. That arrow had been like the fangs of Fen’Harel, delivered quickly to the neck of that which she couldn’t bear to lose.

Her clan hadn’t moved into the shem city. Ilshae wanted them to go to Ostagar when the spring came to heal the land there and begin making it into a fortress of The People. So they abided the encroaching winter outside the walls, with other clans more interested in preserving tradition.

Ilshae reclined in her aravel, her breathing weak and ragged. The cold wasn’t good for her -- Velanna resolved to find a bear and make an additional blanket from its fur. The meat would also go well with the fish which the flat-ears caught. Seranni was with the Keeper in the aravel, awake but too weak to move. Her neck was held in place with braces while the healing magic and potions mended her neck. They had to limit how much she could move her mouth, so she had no way of speaking.

Velanna poured two bowls of the stew for her patients and scooted into the aravel to feed them. Ilshae didn’t even wake as her First put the spoon to her lips, and tilted her head back to swallow.

Seranni however looked at her with plaintive eyes.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Velanna said, weary. “You will be mended faster if you eat and drink.”

Seranni’s eyes glanced at Gwaren’s walls, where the onion-shaped domes stood above the stones.

“It’s a shem city,” Velanna snarled. “You see one, you see them all. You’re not missing anything.”

Seranni disagreed, by the look in her eyes.

“You can go see it when you’re better.” Velanna spooned more stew into Ilshae’s mouth. “When the Keeper is better.”

Her sister reached out and grabbed her hand. A simple squeeze, a fearful glance. She didn’t need words.

“She’ll be fine,” Velanna said, with hope that the Creators would make it true. “Some bedrest, some food, lots of blankets, and time. You’ll see.”

Seranni let her hand go, not quite convinced. A cold wind cut through the camp and made the elves in the aravel shivver. Even Ilshae, under all her blankets, could feel the biting cold.

Velanna resolved that she would find a bear that night for another blanket, and in the meantime Ilshae could have Velanna’s own. The cold could not get so bad that it could overcome all her efforts, surely.

If Velanna was in the city, she would have been able to see past the walls. And if she could see past the walls, she could see a block of ice bigger than any ship ever built pass by in the ocean. Perhaps, she would have considered defying Ilshae and a lot of suffering would have been avoided.


End file.
